


Bad Decisions

by The_Floof



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon Divergent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I don't know how much I'll add to this, This was supposed to be just one chapter and it spiraled out of control, but only because his route got cut, divergencies are on screen assume everything else is canon, idiots to lovers, non-canon companion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29950590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Floof/pseuds/The_Floof
Summary: The story of a delivery girl who only makes the wrong decisions, told by the guy who got roped into dealing with them. A dark comedy of errors.Now with a real title!
Relationships: Benny (Fallout)/Female Courier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Double Down

The moon was the only thing to shine above the flashing lights of the New Vegas strip, bare as it was compared to what all the pre-war records said it used to be. A knockout dame waltzed right into the Tops that night, demanding to know where the boss was. Her patchwork armor reminded Benny of the old days, spent scrounging, scavenging, raiding those sad little towns that didn't have as much of a will to live as he did. A getup like hers was a flashing neon sign that told him not to _fuck_ with her, but the problem was, he already _**did**_. His hand instinctively lowered to Maria's level, prepared to unload a full clip in this woman's head just to make sure he finally got her down this time, assuming she wasn't some kind of immortal being who'd just get angry if he tried.

She lifted a thick few curls out of her eye, briefly revealing the very edge of a surgical scar before those dark locks covered it up again. He watched from a distance as she gave up her weapons, one by one, from a submachine gun to-- Oh _god_ , was that a _giant club made out of_ _ **rebar**_ she handed off like it was a regular old baseball bat? Maybe it was just his imagination, but he could have sworn she made sure he was _looking_ before she pulled that off her back, just to tell him what would happen to him if he left the safety of his casino.

Already, plans coursed through his head. He'd tell to her to wait for him in the presidential suite while he ran off to his room and started packing his bags. She'd be distracted, he could make a clean getaway before she was any the wiser. Assuming she didn't just rip him apart with her bare hands then and there, but she wasn't stupid enough to turn into swiss cheese over a little bit of revenge. Right? Right. She'd have a hard time finishing her delivery if she was dead!

He braced himself, as she started to cross the threshold on the casino lobby... then stared in disbelief, when she sat down at one of the blackjack tables. That was when he knew: She came here to torment him. She had to know he'd run away, and she was going to wait at the tables until he tried. He figured she'd run out of money eventually, so fine. Two could play at this game. He'd wait, too, and he'd _watch_ her like a _hawk_ as long as she spent time in the Tops.

Hours passed.

At one point during her gambling spree, she took a quick trip into the ladies', walking out in a short leopard-print dress that hugged her curves. His breath escaped him, his mind filled with lustful imaginings-- Softly caressing his neck, while she straddled his waist, slowly choking him out while he struggled in vain-- _Christ_. Even in his imagination, he couldn't escape the reality of her impending revenge.

Her winnings piled up high. She doubled down on 200-chip bets nearly every other hand, but the rewards were good enough for her to keep taking those risks, seemingly without _consequence_. She didn't sit at that table to smoke him out, or to tease him... She sat there to take his _money_. Was she _counting cards_? If she was, it wasn't obvious. In a lot of ways, he hated that _more_ , but damn it if he didn't admire the hustle.

“Sir, that high roller's hit 10,000 chips,” one of the Chairmen relayed, as if he hadn't been watching her for the last five hours.

“Just ban her.” Maybe she'd leave, now that she couldn't play anymore. Maybe she'd go get distracted by a show, so _he_ could leave. Or, maybe, she'd walk right up to him, like she did the second she got kicked off the table. Damn it. He should've just let her bankrupt him. Not like those caps would matter when he took over the Strip. He took a deep breath, focused on the lines he needed to use to make her wait for a date that'd never come.

“Hey, Ben,” she cooed. Sweet as a songbird, happy as a clam. Confusing as hell. “Long time, no see.”

That kind of talk from a dame with a body like hers, after what he did? That was like the bright, pretty orange on a cazador's wings. She was venomous, and she was going to kill him if he didn't get the hell out of her territory _now_. Wait. _Her_ territory? This was _his_ place! But god, the way she walked, like it _was_ her territory, and he was an intruder in it... “You've been making a real splash around the Strip, haven't you, babe?” That casual, cool observation set him back in his groove. Maybe she was a radscorpion waiting to strike. That just meant he'd pour a little alcohol on her back, get her to sting herself in her confusion.

“Mmhm.” She reached forward, and something told him that if it wasn't for the guards watching her every move, she might have really tried to touch him then. She settled for a close lean, a gentle pout, and the question, “Why don't you and I head back to your room?” An outright rejection sat on his lips, about to burst forth and pop like bubble gum. “I haven't stopped thinking about you,” she continued, breathless and increasingly aroused with every word.

The record in the back of his head telling him what song to play, what hand to deal-- She gently plucked it from the phonogram and shattered it against the wall. Silence didn't become him. He filled the space he should have used to slow down and think with confused jabbering, protest-- This was **wrong**. Everything _about_ this was wrong. She was shitting him, right? A woman with a body like that had a lot of options, and most of them _didn't_ bury her alive. This was a trick... right? _**Right** **?**_

She kept saying it. After every protest, she doubled down-- Her usual strategy when things looked good for her. He'd been paying attention to her gambling habits. Miracle she didn't go bust.

She didn't go bust here, either.


	2. Reds' Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we only inflict psychological pain.

The barrel of a tiny gun, smaller than a person's hand, pressed up under his chin, locking his jaw tightly shut. She must have hidden it during the original search, happy to hand over all the _obvious_ weapons in her arsenal to throw off the scent of this one. She'd never **needed** a gun, though, to turn his head into mincemeat; she was a bombshell slugger who could end a man with one punch. Not just a force to reckon with, but a force of nature. Unconquerable, untamed, utterly destructive to every little thing in her path.

He'd asked himself, why would someone who had every reason to want him dead do anything but kill him? But she insisted, she pressed, and how could he have been sure she wasn't missing the part of her brain that had to do with common sense? Now, he wondered, why sleep with him first? Was this her way of showing some kind of mercy, making his last memory a good one? And damn, was it good--

The barrel trembled under his chin. All the while, he repeated a mantra to himself; You wake up, you die. Stay sleeping, maybe she reconsiders. She couldn't hear the hitch in his snoring, he told himself. She couldn't tell it was fake. Or maybe she could. Maybe she heard the tremble of fear in his lungs, knowing his best girl's too far away for him to run to before this delivery girl gave up on her own gun and snapped his damn neck. Maybe that's what stopped her, hearing the same fear she felt, this time from another person. Maybe she was too soft for this damn wasteland.

“I really should,” she whispered to herself. “God, I should've when I got him alone.” He suppressed a sudden burst of upset-- Was he not good enough? Not only was he not good enough, was he so bad that she **had** to regret not killing him **sooner**? Then again, most people, when they came face to face with someone who almost killed them, they didn't then go riding that guy's dick. It felt **wrong** , even now, and in the clarity of his post-coital haze mixed with a sudden realization of his own mortality, he had to wonder:  
  
Why wasn't he dead yet?  
  
He'd take the loss on this one, obviously it was stupid to go for this just because she **badgered** him long enough, but seriously. Did **she** even know why?

The muzzle vanished, hidden away somewhere he didn't want to look. “I can't,” she muttered, her voice cracked between silent tears. “I can't do it...” He had to run before she changed her mind again. There was no way in hell he could beat her in a fight, even an unfair one. This bulletproof powerhouse of a woman-- She wasn't going to keel over no matter what **anyone** did. If he ever felt sure of anything, that was it. Hell, if he shot her again, now he was pretty sure it'd just bounce right back off her skin like she was made of titanium.

He wasn't making excuses, he said to himself. He just didn't want to take that chance.

He stayed stock still until her breaths slowed. Then he stayed just a little longer, to make sure she was fast asleep. Then he'd... he'd go on with the plan. Maybe she'd think more than twice about killing him when he was in charge. Or, maybe what he wanted was for her to stay on the _second_ thought without thinking thrice. Yeah. Once he _had_ Vegas, a place at his side would look nice to her.


	3. Semi-bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dilemma: You need to rescue this dumbass without alerting the entire Legion and getting him killed in the process.  
> Response: “What if I put a collar on him?”

Benny's eyes slowly cracked open to the same old tent he'd seen for the past-- He lost count. Part of him wished he hadn't asked that woman not to follow him in that note he left behind, if only so she could put him out of his misery now.

Oh, but speak of the devil and she would appear.

That patchwork set of armor crossed the threshold. His eyes slowly ventured up her thigh, to an exposed patch of skin with a brand new set of massive claw-mark scars, the armor torn up to match. That madwoman faced up against a deathclaw and lived. No wonder the Legion let her walk in without putting a collar on her first. No doubt if they _tried_ to do that, they'd all end up just like that deathclaw, rotting in the wasteland.

She walked right up to Caesar, not a drop of fear in those steely eyes of hers. The barest sparkle of that look she gave him the day they first met-- It all disappeared, as if the bullets took out her fear somehow. There had to be some part of the brain that determined that, but hell if he knew what that was. Probably got damaged, though. Hence the deathclaw.

As long as he kept thinking about her, he didn't have to pay attention to his own aching body. If he kept his mind on what those feet of hers could do--

“I get to choose how he dies?” Her voice cut through the reverie that once kept him sane. Sweet as a songbird, happy as a clam. She changed her mind again, he realized, and she wanted him dead this time. Maybe she just couldn't do it in his sleep. Maybe she needed him to be awake, needed him to know he was about to die, needed him to look her in the eye with that same fear she once showed him.

The king of douchebags confirmed that for her.

“And what if I don't want him to die?” Her question confused everyone else in the tent, not least of all Benny himself. She waited for the murmuring to stop, then calmly added, “Death is an _easy_ way out. You have bed slaves, don't you? Now. I'm sure you're _happy_ with all your women, but I need a **man** , you see.” She held herself tall and confident, as if the words out of her mouth weren't getting increasingly less civilized the more she went on. “And you know, our past aside, I'd **hate** to let that face go to waste-- Besides. Slavery is definitely **worse** than death. I think it's what he deserves.”

Bemused, that bald nosebleed agreed to it. Of course, not without asking, if slavery was worse than death, what did that make her, then?

“A monster,” she chirped, as a pair of soldiers approached the bound man, thick collar in hand. She moonwalked backward, pleasant smile on her lips. As easily and as happily as she told him she wanted him, she asked, “Now, how do I adjust the fit? I heard you fit it with just a bit of skin sticking out on the top and bottom, but I have some issues with that. 'Cause first, no matter what, if it's one fit all the time, they're still gonna get used to it. Feeling it there every time they move? **Come on**. Even that's gonna feel normal eventually. Don't underestimate people's ability to adapt.”

She giggled, a sound that lifted his slowly-shattering heart back up where it belonged, only for it to fall back into his stomach when she kept talking about how she apparently wanted to torture him for life. “See, what I want to do is have it tight for a bit, then when he's broken down enough, I loosen it as a little reward-- So if he gets uppity with me, I can tighten it again and watch him break. Over. And over again.” He wished she'd say all that with just a little more malice. He wished she'd sneer, or glare, or do **anything** but say all that with a cute, kissable smile and her usual happy-go-lucky attitude. Of course, the men praised her for her ideas, but whether that was just because they needed to use her or because they actually thought she was intelligent had yet to be seen.

The collar snapped tight around his neck. The hard swallow he took knocked uncomfortably against it, and with those men so close, he didn't dare try to charm the woman just yet.

\---

She dragged him out, got her weapons back on her way to the other side of the river, then took him to a hill overlooking the Legion-run lake town, far from any of the guards' eyes.

He tried to speak up. “I--”

Her finger pressed against his lips with a quiet shush. Her eyes lost that vibrant luster, sympathetic and serious as she dug through her belongings. “Are you hurt?”

He scoffed at the question. “I'm fine, babe. Look--” She poked and prodded at his body anyway, worriedly patting him down until she pressed up against his fractured forearm-- He cried out in pain, and she didn't waste a second sticking him with a stim. He couldn't decide whether to sigh in relief or back off from her, but the collar on his neck reminded him what she'd **done** and a flash of anger coursed through his veins. “You know, baby, I'm getting a lot of mixed messages here. First, you come to my pad, you tell me I'm someone you didn't know you needed in your life, we have-- the best night I've ever had, I'm not gonna lie--” His brief, goofy expression went ignored, then shifted back into abject rage. “Then you put a gun to my head, and you can't pull the trigger? Kooky's just about the nicest word I've got for you, and I've got a lot of less-nice ones to follow up.”

“Benny.” She finally glared at him, finally lowered her tone, for once. Her chipper sing-songy tone disappeared, and all she had left for him was a curt, irritated hiss. “You're a fucking idiot, you know that? I just **saved** you.”

He couldn't bite his tongue, even if he wanted to. Not after she said something like that. “By what, making me a **slave**? You're a real--”

“I _lied_ about that!” she interjected, grabbing him by the shoulders, only a hair away from shaking him back and forth in her exceptionally strong hands. “Just like I lied about wanting to fuck you! I was supposed to kill you right after, but I, god, I...” Troubled eyes pled to his, searching for a sympathy they weren't going to find. “I'm not like you! Okay? I can't just **kill** a _**defenseless person**_! I'm a **Follower** \-- That's not how we do things!” Her grip loosened, and her weary gaze fell to his collar. “As soon as we're in the _clear_ , I'm taking that stupid thing _off_. Okay?”

Benny opened his mouth to protest. His complaints about her stupid _plan_ , oh, he'd talk about **that** in a damn minute. First, though, he felt himself going somewhat limp-- Until he claimed, “I knew you weren't... really... I can smell apple butter _miles_ away, pussycat.” He laughed a sad little laugh, one he figured she wasn't really going to buy. “I was just testing you. Seeing how far you'd go for the lie.”

Her eyebrows raised to the sky, mouth ajar with an unspoken 'Sure, whatever you say' on her lips that she was clearly too polite to say.

“Why go that far?”

“I--” She grabbed him by the hand and walked onward, through a town littered with the fallen bodies of feral ghouls. _Few_ of them fell in one piece, no doubt because of her literal killer arm... He felt another shiver coming on. “Short answer, impulse. Long answer, a pattern of impulsive behavior caused by damage to the frontal lobe. But don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean it wasn't good--”

The irradiation wracked his body more than the fallen bodies wracked his mind. Meanwhile, as the courier's medical explanation flew a little bit too high over his head, he sort of picked up 'damage' to the 'frontal lobe'. Lobes were part of the brain, or something, and 'frontal' obviously meant it was in front. That night really _was_ all because she was brain damaged. He'd be damned if he trusted the same lines as last time, then, but brain damaged or not, he could still steal a glance, right?

Wait. No. He was still pissed off.

“Lemme guess, you're gonna blame this stupid plan on your brain injury, too?” he scoffed, at first. Too bad she had to go and _nod her head yes_ about it. His expression flattened. “C _'mon_ , this is _not_ my fault. You coulda slipped me a bobby pin and a stealth boy, and I woulda had it made.”

“I didn't think of that,” she admitted. Then, she pursed her lips together, brows knotted in the middle of her forehead. “How would a bobby pin... have _helped_ you? You were tied up with rope, not handcuffs.”

“I woulda thought'a something. I always do.” he protested, then simmered back down, slumping as he let himself get lead by the wrist. For now.

“I don't have any stealth boys on me, anyway,” she mentioned, an offhanded statement as she looked around for the barest sight of red cloth hidden around the place. Not that any Legionaries would venture out into the NCR town they'd personally ruined, but it helped to be cautious. Their path took a big loop around the road out, of course. Lest someone catch her with a slave, he figured. That'd almost be smart, if this whole situation wasn't stupid.

Still, she held off on relieving the pressure around his neck, even as they ended up in the middle of a thick dust storm over miles of plain, flat land.

“I think you should join me,” she told him.

His eyebrow raised quizzically. “Is this an ultimatum? Play for my side, or I hold you captive?” He had to laugh. “Babe, _doll_ , who says I won't agree to join you, then stab you in the back and take the Strip for myself?”

She stared at him for a moment, blank-faced, as if she had to suss out whether or not the words that just came out of his mouth were the stupidest things she'd ever heard in her life. That set the fire in his heart back up, roaring stronger than ever; _he_ wasn't the one who thought up _her_ stupid plan! Then, she answered him. “I'm going to let you go either way,” she promised. “But joining me... That's the only way _you_ get to _taste_ Vegas again. 'Cause, listen, I'm gonna break it to you real slow. _All_ your plans have failed. You've had an 18 karat run of bad luck--”

“Let me guess-- _The game was rigged from the start_ ,” he mocked, petulantly crossing his arms in front of his chest. “That woulda worked better if you said it in the tent, pussycat. When you had my hands tied, maybe put a gun to my head. _Now_ you're playing the wrong hand.”

“If you try to kill me, I'll rip you apart before you can pull the trigger.” With that, she stepped behind him, stuck her key into the lock, let his collar fall to the sands. “But seriously. You're the one with the intact brain. So _use_ it. Join the girl who's gonna win it big, and run the place _with_ me.”

“You really _did_ lose your brains,” he sighed. Still, a part of him _deep,_ deep down had to admit she was right. He went through months of planning, only to get caught in five minutes and roughed up for-- He wasn't going to think about that. Meanwhile, _she_ waltzed in, _invited_ like the belle of the goddamn ball, and given VIP treatment on how to deal with _the Legion's_ intruder. She had these people wrapped around her little finger... At least, it looked that way at first blush. “Follower of the Apocalypse,” he remembered out loud. “So, what, you're a doctor?” She nodded. “You have any _other_ groups you're betting on?” She shook her head. “I'll bite. What's your plan?”

“Pretty close to yours,” she admitted. “I keep New Vegas out of the hands of the NCR and Legion. I kill House. Except I'm taking it for the Followers.”

His expression turned into one of blatant disgust. “ _ **Seriously**_?” That bunch of teetotalers, running Sin City? She was _joking_ , right? “What, you wanna make booze illegal in the Strip? No way. Fold that hand, babe, you know you can't play it.”

“I wouldn't do that,” she huffed. “I'd just give the people in Freeside a better life.”

“Well ain't you a _saint_ ,” he snarked, halfway ready to turn on his heel before he realized she stranded them both in the middle of a sandstorm and he wasn't paying attention to which direction was what. Damn it. Woman was craftier than he gave her credit for. “And you think the Families are gonna take to it when you start letting whoever and whatever into the city? How're you gonna handle them?”

She beamed. “I'm handling the Chairmen right now.” He grimaced. “You're not running off, right? And you know your guys won't do something like, I dunno, _shun you_ , if you're _technically_ still winning-- with a _partner_.” The way she emphasized that word left a weird taste in his mouth. A partner, who pretended to want to spend the night with him, actually _did_ it against her better judgment, and what... Wanted to work together? If he didn't know any better, he'd call that romance.

Good thing he knew better. She had an angle. She wasn't the straightforward type, he knew that now, but what did she really want out of him? How did this silver-tongued fox benefit from bringing him along? He didn't dare think it had anything to do with _him_. Not now that she dropped a nuke of her own right on top of his-- heart? Libido? Probably the latter.

Wasn't she better off letting him run off into the desert to die alone?

“And you trust me, do you? You think I'll be a good partner?” He laughed at the thought.

“No,” she answered. The smartest thing he heard her say since he met her, honestly. “But I want to try anyway.” And there it went. Alas, Courier Six's intelligence, he knew you for about half a second.

“What do--” She _told_ him what he got out of it. Co-ownership with the woman who won where he lost. What did _she_ get out of it, that was the _real_ question. One he wasn't about to ask. “Far be it from _me_ to reject a spot on the winning team. But this ain't--”

She clasped his hand in both of hers, shook it so hard he was surprised he didn't fly into the air with each powerful lift. Woman was way too strong. He'd do well not to forget that. “Khadi,” she finally introduced. “Khadi Jones. Rain, sleet, snow, hail, _or bullets to the face_ , nothing's gonna stop me from reaching my goal!” _**Christ**_ , that introduction. He didn't know whether to _boo_ or _applaud_ that ridiculous perversion of some old pre-war postal service slogan. He settled for an unamused stare instead.

What did he get himself _into_?


	4. Drawing Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As someone who lives in the Mojave, FNV's depiction of tumbleweeds as anything but an imminent threat to humanity is nothing short of unrealistic fantasy.

It had been a long few days of walking, running into packs of mutated creatures, and more walking to layer on top of that. The suit needed a deep clean. They both needed a bath. Benny hoped moving to the Strip would've meant he didn't have to do this kind of thing anymore, but of course! Nothing he planned worked out for him! That was his life now!

And the cherry on top? Tonight's campfire came with a request. “Unban me from the Tops.”

He snorted into his 200 year old box of deviled eggs. Yeah, no, over his dead body. “I don't need you cheating my tables.”

An indignant finger thrust itself at him. “Hey! I won that money fair and square!” Khadi was kind of cute when she puffed those cheeks out like that. Of course, that only made him want to rile her up more.

“You trying to pull a fast one on me?” Seriously? On _him_ of all people? Cheaters like her were a dime a dozen. She was just the first one he actually _entertained_. God, the more he thought about that night, the weirder it felt now. “I watched you count cards for five hours. You don't get to suck caps off my tables--” He stopped himself mid-sentence, but figured, hey, if she _wasn't_ really into him, a couple creepy lines would get her to back off. He opened his mouth, but she interrupted his oncoming banger of a line with one of her own:

“But I can suck _you_ off~?” Her lighthearted giggle burst into full force while his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Of course. She wasn't into him, but 'shy' didn't exist in this broad's vocabulary.

He muttered, “I wasn't gonna go there.” Her eye roll, her cute little scoff, finished off by that smile of hers-- She didn't believe him. “I wasn't,” he insisted, only to amuse her further. Wait a minute, wasn't _he_ supposed to be the one riling _her_ up? He needed to salvage this. “But if _you_ start talking like that, well hey, we can make it a date.”

“You make it sound like everything was _my_ idea,” Khadi teased.

It took two to tango, they said, but in reality, it took _one_ to convince the _other_ to dance-- And if she could hear him thinking about it, she'd probably say something like 'You weren't hard to convince.' Sure, maybe there was something to be said about getting convinced in the first place. There was something _else_ to say about how he wouldn't have needed near as much sweet talk if she was _any_ other woman in the world. He wasn't the one playing fast and easy here. “It _was_ ,” he pressed, too-forcefully tossing his empty tin toward the wastes.

Khadi, thankfully, didn't go in on him there, content to stare off into the distance.

For an agonizingly long sixty seconds.

Silent.

Okay, what was she _staring_ at? Benny started to turn his head, only to get a shush and a whispered, “Don't look. We gotta move.” A bottle of filthy water snuffed out the fire, and as the darkness set in on the Mojave, the powerhouse of a woman pulled him to his feet and got walking.

“You mind telling me what's--” Another shush, this one louder, with an undertone of irritation. He heaved an irritated sigh of his own, and spoke _quieter_. “What's got you walking away from the table?”

“ _Legion_ ,” she hissed. “Carrying a collar, _probably_ yours-- Using a scent dog. I think they knew I was lying.”

“Gee, you don't say.” Maybe she could have done without that whole ramble about how she wanted to _ease up_ on a weakling or whatever those fucks called people like him. Too late to think about it now. It was time to do what he did best; get himself out of a sticky situation. But how to fool a dog's nose without first gathering a bunch of other poor saps to cover the scent? Wait. Why were they _running_? “You could punch a deathclaw dead, and you're not gonna face off against a few guys with spears and a dog?”

Khadi made a noise that existed somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Just keep walking.” Okay, that was one way to be obvious about it when you were hiding something. So what was she hiding?

His attention returned to the exposed, fresh scars on either side of her body. She'd done an 18 karat job patching those up, apparently without a single stimpak-- Without a stimpak. Was this a ploy to make the Legion respect her? Did she _ever_ get in a fight with a deathclaw, or did she inflict these wounds some other, much safer, way? Damn. She was bluffing from the second she walked into that fortress, wasn't she?

Now that raised the question of why she'd go so far for a semi-bluff that didn't work out great for her in the long game. That, he didn't have time to think about before the winds picked up.

In the middle of tumbleweed season.

Laughter erupted from his chest. Luck was a _bitch_ tonight, wasn't she? Now not only did they have the Roman wannabes on their tail, but a mountain of gathered, dead thistle bushes would pile on them by morning. If the crucifixions weren't bad enough, they'd be plenty impaled by the time anyone started poking spears.

“House up ahead,” Khadi noted. “Looks abandoned.” He took it all back; Luck was a lady, distinguished and fine. He'd kiss the ground at her feet if he could.

A stray tumbleweed passed by as the pair made it to the building, a foreboding warning of what was to come.

She soon knelt in front of the door, fumbled with a bobby pin, unsure of how to get it to fit in some kind of lock she'd apparently never seen before in her life. Bemused, he let this go on for a minute longer than he really ought to, considering the hunting party-- Could he really be blamed for that, though? Of course it was gonna be funny when the _hero of the wastelands_ couldn't pick open a _simple_ door lock.

“All right, all right.” He nudged her out of the way. “I got this.” Just a twist here, and turn there, and-- Click! He swung the door open, motioning an unspoken _ladies first_ with a sweeping wave of his arm. She didn't mind if she did.

He could've left then, he thought. If it wasn't for the boys in red, he could have vanished into the night, but they both knew _her_ scent wasn't the one those guys were trying to follow.

The inside of the house looked like any war-torn old shack would. Half-rotten, chock full of old books and threadbare fabrics. No bodies in this one. Just the outlines of people who used to be, on the bedroom wall.

“Grab a chair,” she ordered. “Break it apart. Board up the windows. We're going to wait this out.”

He moved to actually _do_ it for a second, then thought better of it. “You're drawing dead here, Pussycat. You know when they get here, they'll start shooting. And wood ain't _bulletproof_ , babe.”

She ignored his protests while she dragged the bookshelf close to the door. Then, with a single push, she shoved it on its side, across their only way out. Crazy bird. Reeling from the loud crash, he ripped up the half-rotten chair with a lot more ease than he would have liked. This wasn't going to last through a half-decent assault by tribals, much less a real attack.

“Seriously-- What's your plan?”

She waited for him to do what he was told. When she felt satisfied that, yes, he was _finally_ putting boards to windows, she finally gave him his answer. “First, I'm betting on the tumbleweeds. They won't be much in the way of protection, but nobody's going to be able to see in, or _get_ in to finish the job, no matter how much they shoot. Second--” She motioned to the closet. “You ever play seven minutes in heaven? Once they start shooting, we need to be _dead_ quiet, but until then...”

“Makes you think it's any safer in the _closet_?” he complained.

She offered him a half-enthused shrug and a knowing smile. “Just trust me.” Kookie. Absolutely kookie. This delivery girl lost her marbles when they spilled out all over Goodsprings' soil. Whatever she had left, he knew it wasn't brains.

Still, he didn't have any better plans. What could he do, try to outrun a dog? Look for a half-decent bottleneck of a cave and start shooting? Would that he could, but he didn't have the bullets. Khadi didn't carry ammo much, it turned out. Not much need. He didn't see any guns on her, not since the fortress.

He didn't see that giant rebar club on her, either. She really _did_ show it off at the casino _just_ to intimidate him, didn't she? He laughed to himself-- The absurdity of it all, culminating in this ridiculous Hail Mary that he knew wasn't going to work. He meant it when he said she was drawing dead; she wanted to get a nice full house on the river, but these guys had four of a kind. If they were going to hide behind a pile of tumbleweeds, all those guys had to do--

The telltale scent of smoke hit his nostrils. By now, the wind howled past scant cracks in the windows. Thorns poked through holes in the wall, as high up as those holes appeared. They had their tumblewall, but at what cost?

“Shit.” Khadi's muttered curse confirmed his fears. “Shit. Okay. Didn't think about fire.” Muffled laughter told him they were _not only right outside_ , but could hear _everything_ from _inside_. The blaze spread along the front wall in a flash. “I'll--” She pulled a strange mask from her bag, shoved it on his face, shoved _him_ in the closet-- “I'll take care of this. Just _one_ minute.” She shut him in, without so much as consulting him or thinking about whether this was a _good idea_.

In the darkness, he slid his feet closer to his chest, sliding the rug along with them.

He felt the ground with his hands-- A smooth slab, interrupted by a slight groove in its top-- Panic shelter? If only the old owner of this place had the wherewithal to use it when the bombs dropped. Their loss, his gain, he figured, while the flames started in on his oven-to-be. He jimmied the lock and jumped right into _another_ dark box. At least this one wasn't flammable.

Just in time to hear a thundering series of crashes overhead. He tried to push the trapdoor back up, but it wouldn't budge. That settled it. The damn house collapsed. _**Whose stupid idea was this, again?**_

When she dug him out, he had half a mind to finish what he started.

 _If_ she dug him out.

He took a deep breath through that rebreather and sat with his legs hanging off one of the ladder rungs. Might as well get _comfortable_.


End file.
